


The Russian House

by HazukiNinja



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Alternate universe - Mafia, Angst, Explicit Language, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Past Haiba Lev/Yaku Morisuke, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:49:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28536159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazukiNinja/pseuds/HazukiNinja
Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi is the heir to a Yakuza family. Yaku Morisuke is the owner of a dive bar with secrets. A single incident sends them crashing together.Tags and rating to be updated with new chapters.HQ Rarepair Week 2021
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi & Yaku Morisuke, Sakusa Kiyoomi/Yaku Morisuke
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	The Russian House

Sakusa first sees him on a Friday morning. He glances at the jogger - _short, athletic, light hair, no visible tattoos,_ he brusquely assesses - then turns away when he judges him not to be a threat. He resumes his questioning of the gate guard. The jogger continues down the street. 

He sees him again a few weeks later, another late Friday morning, and is shocked when Hiroshi gives the boy a wave. The boy waves back to his astonishment, even flashing a grin, but he doesn’t stop. Sakusa takes a second to examine the retreating figure with furrowed brows but doesn’t see anything more than he did the first time. He swivels his head to stare down at the older man at his side, eyes snapping over his mask, and Hiroshi readily complies with the silent question. 

“He jogs by almost every Friday. When that delivery of electronics came in a few weeks back, Suzuki slipped and dropped a box. All of the sudden that fella was just, bam, right there! Lunged and caught it. It wasn’t light either; it had a couple of security cameras and accessories in it.” Hiroshi shrugs. “He set it back in the truck and asked if Suzuki was okay. I thanked him and he jogged off. But I guess he remembered us, because if me or Suzuki are out front when he’s running by, he’ll always give us a wave.”

Sakusa looked up and down the street, searching. Hiroshi, an uncle in all ways but blood to Kiyoomi, knows what he’s looking for. “I don’t think he’s any trouble,” he says, tweaking his rolled sleeves. “He’s been jogging past here every Friday for a while now. Probably just a college kid who moved nearby.” 

“Still suspicious,” Sakusa replies curtly. 

“Paranoid,” Hiroshi ribs gently.

A snort. “Is anyone in our family not paranoid?” 

“I don’t think too many family members would be concerned by a single jogger with a schedule and quick reflexes.”

“The others aren’t heir to the Sakusa Clan. It’s my job to worry about these things.”

“No, it’s your job to think big-picture. You should let others deal with the petty things.”

It’s an old argument. Sakusa knows his meticulous nature can slide into obsession at times, and paranoia has a way of gripping him so tightly he feels as if his lungs will be squeezed out of his mouth. But with his history, his legacy, he can’t see any other way for him to have turned out. 

But he bows his head in acquiesce. He respects Hiroshi, a quiet legend who’s proven his loyalty and expertise to the Sakusa Clan a thousand times over. 

That doesn’t mean he won’t keep his eye on the jogger though. 

The runner has other plans though, it would seem. A month passes, and Sakusa doesn’t even manage to catch a glimpse of the boy. He lets his awareness of him slide into the background of his mind, but it flares up when he walks out of the complex. 

His persistence is eventually rewarded on a ridiculously early Friday morning. Sakusa isn’t thinking of the runner for once as he walks out the gate with Hiroshi - it’s hours earlier than their previous encounters - so he’s caught off-guard at the sight walking towards him. 

Walking, not jogging. 

He’s still got his earbuds in, but instead of t-shirts and shorts he’s in a dark canvas jacket over a black hoodie and tight jeans. He’s walking at a fast clip, eyes straight ahead, and Sakusa feels a jolt in his chest. He turns around to head inside the complex — _Safety,_ his mind screams — but his companion has other plans.

“Good morning!” Hiroshi calls, a hand raised in greeting.

“ _Uncle,_ ” Sakusa hisses, watching as the young man snaps his head towards the pair. Recognition brings a tired smile to his face as he slides the earbuds out and loops them around his neck. 

“Talk to him for a minute, figure out that he’s just some college kid, then let this one piece of paranoia rest,” His uncle whispers through a cheerful grin. “Your brain needs a break when it can get it.”

The man stops a few feet away and dips his head in greeting. “Good morning Uncle, Uncle’s friend,” he says, eyes resting briefly on Sakusa before flickering over to the older man. “Need more help with moving boxes?” 

Hiroshi chuckles politely. “Thankfully not. Skipping out on your jog today?” 

He shoves his hands in his jacket pocket and shrugs. “Unfortunately. Gotta make some early pick-ups for work.”

“Your boss sounds like he works you hard,” Hiroshi says sympathetically. Sakusa shifts silently beside him, taking in every detail he can about the jogger. _Kanto accent, probably local_. His eyes trace the beginning fine lines framing his eyes. _Older than I first thought. But how old?_ “Is it hard to work with your studies?” Sakusa interjects before Hiroshi can continue. 

The young man blinks at Sakusa before his lips twitch up in a rueful smile. “Ah, I’m not actually a student. I work at a bar near Sophia University.”

The statement itself doesn't tell Sakusa much, but he latches onto the hint. “What’s it called? Maybe I’ve been there.” 

“You haven’t,” the jogger shakes his head as he shifts from foot to foot. “I’ve got a good memory for faces, and I haven’t seen you around. And before you ask,” he smirks sharply, “I’m the only bartender, so no chance of me missing you on an off day.” 

A sudden alarm cuts through Sakusa’s follow-up question and the young man slides out a cracked smartphone. _Clumsy, poor, or lazy_ , Sakusa’s mind collects the data points like a man dying of thirst. He crosses off the last option before the thought barely finishes. Someone with a body like that was clearly committed to a regular exercise regimen, which didn’t lend itself to the image of a loafing loser.

“Sorry, that’s my cue to start running for the train,” the brunette apologies, raising his hands to replace his earbuds. “Have a good morning!”

Hiroshi waves him off, and they both watch as he departs. “See? Sophia University’s not far. Makes sense he would live around here. The story checks out.” 

Sakusa raises a hand to adjust his mask while he considers it for a minute. “Too many layers to tell if he had a gun,” Sakusa finally points out. “He could just be trying to get us to lower our guards.”

Hiroshi just sighs. 

They see each other a few more times over the coming weeks. The jogger continues to wave his hello, though he never stops to chat, much to Sakusa’s relief. He begins to suspect that maybe Hiroshi’s initial judgment was correct. 

A Sunday morning in early autumn changes everything. 

Kiyoomi waits impatiently by the side of the dark car, staring at his older sister, three year-old niece, and Hiroshi. They’re outside the gates, exposed to any passerby, and yet none of them seem to have an ounce of urgency. 

“You’re going to miss your flight,” he calls out curtly. Kimiko pauses her conversation with Hiroshi to cut him an exasperated look. “We’ve got plenty of time, and I want to catch up with Uncle. Play with Yuna for a few minutes.” His young niece giggles by her mother’s side and bounces in place.

“We’ve got eyes on the road,” Hiroshi reminds the younger Sakusa patiently. “It’s not exactly a popular thoroughfare, so we’ll just hop in the car or back in the complex if someone suspicious drives by.”

“I know that,” Kiyoomi snaps. He yanks his phone out of his pocket as he fights the flush of embarrassment on his face and begins angrily typing out a message to his cousin Motoya. 

He’s already halfway through deleting the entire text when he hears it, and everything drags down to slow-motion. Hiroshi grabs Kimiko, hauling her behind him and back towards the gate, gun already in hand. His mouth is open, yelling something to Kiyoomi, but he can’t hear it over the ringing in his ears and the squealing of tires. His sister is fighting Hiroshi’s grip, hands reaching out, face open in its fear and desperation. 

Kiyoomi’s head swivels, his own gun in one hand and the other outstretched, coat flapping around him. He can’t see Yuna.

He feels his legs propel him towards the front of the car. _Please_ , he begs, the only coherent word he can hold in his mind. _Please_. 

The engine roars closer. Kiyoomi isn’t going to make it. 

And then there’s a blur. 

It shoots out from in front of the car and rolls to a stop against the outer wall of the complex. Kiyoomi watches the swerving, speeding car — _silver sedan, local plates, probably a drunk driver_ , the rational part of his brain ruthlessly notes — as it continues unimpeded down the road. There are no gunshots from enemies known or unknown. Only silence. 

They remain frozen, staring at the unmoving bundle on the ground. And then it twitches. 

The body unclenches and arms slowly unwind to release their hold on a small, stricken child, who, to everyone’s relief, begins to cry. 

“Yuna, Yuna!” Kimiko cries, racing forward and falling to her knees. “Are you hurt honey? Are you okay?”

While his niece sobs and reaches for her mother, Sakusa locks eyes with wild brown ones. The jogger remains on the ground, breathing hard. He looks away when Hiroshi drops next to Kimiko, gun vanished from sight, and begins to touch him, inspecting him for serious injuries. Sakusa takes the distraction to slip his own gun back into its hidden holster.

“I’m fine,” the jogger heaves as he sits up, blatantly ignoring the blood oozing down the side of his arm. “Is she okay?”

“I think she’s fine, just frightened,” Kimiko says as she clutches Yuna close to her chest, rubbing her back, tears rolling down her face. She bows deeply from her kneeling position. “Thank you for saving my daughter. I don’t know how I will ever repay you.”

The young man releases a massive sigh of relief, and lets his head hang down. “As long as she’s okay, that’s enough. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it in time.”

“It’s not Friday.”

They all turn to look at Kiyoomi. “You only run here on Fridays. Why were you here?”

“ _Kiyoomi!_ ” His sister hisses while Hiroshi frowns. The jogger stares at him in shock before weakly laughing. 

“My normal route had some construction so I changed my plans. Must’ve been fate, huh?”

Suddenly the young man is standing, clutching his bleeding arm. He sways for a moment before Hiroshi steadies him. Sakusa spies torn fabric and roadburn all over his arms and legs. “Sorry, but I have to go.”

“Wait, sir, you’re clearly hurt. Let us—”

But Hiroshi is politely rebuffed with a head shake and a raised hand. “It’s fine. I’m fine. But I need to leave.”

And then he does. He walks a few steps before breaking out into a jog, stumbling only once before finding a rhythm. They watch him go in collective shock, silent even as additional guards join them.

The next Friday arrives, and Hiroshi, Suzuki, and Sakusa all wait by the gate. The jogger never comes. Three more Fridays pass before they give up and admit they’ve likely seen the last of the unlikely hero.

\--

It’s a damp autumn night, later than most responsible citizens should find themselves out and about, and Sakusa stands stiffly outside a bar, gazing at his phone. 

He has an hour to kill before he meets up with a contact and he isn’t inclined to spend it loitering around a train station. That was a free invitation to get chatted up by a cop this late at night, which wasn’t exactly ideal considering his lifestyle.

He had wandered a few blocks away from the meeting spot, familiarizing himself with new businesses, the closure of others, and mentally updating escape routes, but quickly grew tired of the weather. A quick search on his phone brought Sakusa to The Russian House. 

The photos made it seem clean online, and it wasn’t particularly large or trendy, which meant there weren’t likely to be crowds on a Tuesday after 11:00pm. They weren’t affiliated with the Sakusa Clan, but it was in their territory, making it a neutral location at worst. 

Kiyoomi sighs, and steps through the door. 

“Welcome!” A voice calls from the kitchen. “I’ll be with you in one second!” Sakusa plants himself by the door, taking in the only two other people in the bar, the decor, and the exits. He’s not particularly impressed, but it beats the drizzle outside. 

Motion to his left makes him turn, and his entire body locks up. Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the bar, in a tight, black, long sleeve shirt with a dark apron looped around his waist, stands the jogger. The only comfort Sakusa finds is that he seems equally paralyzed, wide-eyed and tight-lipped. 

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the tension seems to drain out of the other man’s body and he leans against the doorway, one arm dangling loose at his side while the other braces on his hip. “Uncle’s friend,” He greets with saccharine politeness that puts Sakusa immediately on edge. “Have you been checking out every bar near the university looking for me?”

Sakusa forces himself not to sneer on reflex to the tone of voice. “No. I was in the area and wanted a drink. This place seemed adequate.” 

The bartender studies him for another few moments, waiting for Sakusa to say more, then sighs and straightens up. “Okay then. Would you prefer the bar or a table?”

“I’ll sit over there.” 

Sakusa makes his way to the last seat at the end of the bartop, where he can sit sideways and have a wall to his back and an easy view of the door. He pulls out a pack of antibacterial wipes from his pocket and uses one to swipe the seat and another the counter space in front of him. To his credit, the young man says nothing. Instead, he ducks over to a shelf and pulls down two clean towels, thrusting them towards Sakusa. “Your seat will be wet,” he explains. “The other’s for your hair.”

Sakusa feels his eyebrows furrow slightly, but he carefully takes the proffered towels with a nod of thanks, wipes off the bar stool with one, and runs the other over his damp curls a few times. He hands them back to the bartender, who chucks them into a bucket on the floor and immediately goes to wash his hands, much to Sakusa’s relief. He definitely chose the right bar tonight, for a variety of reasons. 

“Would you like a menu, or do you know what you’d like?”

“Do you carry Japanese spirits or just Russian ones?”

“Both. I can give a recommendation—”

“Not necessary,” Sakusa interrupts. He knows he’s being rude, but he’s buzzing with nerves, exhausted, and just wanted a drink. “Shochu on the rocks. Please,” he adds at the bartender’s look.

“Brand preference?” He pulls out a glass tumbler and reaches down to the freezer for ice. 

“Anything mid- or top-shelf. Sweet potato-based, if you have it.”

The bartender nods before turning, his hands hovering over the bottles on the shelf. He hesitates, fluttering between two bottles, before settling on a stylish glass one. Sakusa nods to himself, content with the bartender’s choice, and busies himself with his phone.

 _Found the jogger. Works at a bar called The Russian House._ He sends the text to Hiroshi, knowing he’ll pass it on to someone with a knack for searching government records, and picks up the glass under the wary gaze of the bartender. 

“Can I get you anything else?” He asks, curt. At least he dropped the act quickly. 

Sakusa looks down at his glass and reaches up to slide down his mask. He takes a cautious sip, then lets his eyes flit upwards. “Why did you run away?”

“I had things to do.”

“You were bleeding. We didn’t get the chance to thank you properly.” 

The bartender inched sideways, looking out at the other two patrons. “I’m uncomfortable with praise. If you’ll excuse me, I think one of my customers needs a refill.”

He dodges every attempt at conversation Sakusa tries to initiate, but Sakusa finally catches a break when one of the customers, a young student-type intently working at a laptop in the corner, yells out, “Shit! Yamada! Can you grab some towels, I just spilled on my books!” 

The bartender — _His name is Yamada_ , Sakusa texts Hiroshi — hustles over with a stack of cloth and paper towels, swearing alongside the other man as they attempt to salvage the books. The other customer, a young professional type, jumps in to help too. Once the panic eases up, the three are laughing like old friends and teasing the student for his clumsiness.

Sakusa’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out, and tenses as he reads. 

_Nobody named Yamada in the employment records for The Russian House. Only one employee listed, probably the owner: Yaku Morisuke._

He watches Yaku as he smiles, genuinely friendly with the others. Yaku, whose sleeves hide large swaths of torn skin from saving a child from an out-of-control car. 

Yaku, with reflexes fast enough to pull off an incredible move like that. Yaku, who lied about his name. 

Sakusa sets his drink away from him, and waits. 

Eventually the bartender makes his way back towards Sakusa, the easy smile tightening as they make eye contact. “Another drink?” He asks, reaching out for the glass, before frowning as he realizes it’s only half-empty. “Was it not to your liking?”

“Yaku-san. Would you mind telling me what you’re up to?”

The bartender leaps back, eyes wide with fear. Sakusa feels a curl of satisfaction in his gut. He’s not exactly happy at the confirmation of his suspicions, but it’s satisfying to be proven right. 

“Where did you hear that name?” Yaku whispers. His eyes flick over Sakusa’s shoulders, seeing if the other patrons are watching, then quickly returns to Sakusa’s face. He begins to shake.

“A friend. What do you want with my family?”

“Don’t— What? What about your family?” Confusion momentarily overtakes the fear on Yaku’s face. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“Don’t lie. You’ve been trying to get close to us for months now.” Sakusa snaps, tapping his holstered gun under his coat. Two witnesses, but he can probably get Yaku to go out the rear entrance that likely exists in the kitchen without drawing too much attention to themselves. 

“I— What the fuck? What the actual fuck are you talking about?” There’s no fear or confusion at this point, only anger. Sakusa feels a twinge in his chest. “Is this about my running routine? Do you think I’m trying to spy on your business for a rival or something?” 

“You wave—”

“To be fucking polite!” He whispers harshly. “Tell me why you know my name, or I swear to god I will kick your ass.”

There is a tiny part of Sakusa’s brain that wants to laugh in Yaku’s face. Sure the guy looks like he works out, but Sakua’s got about 20 or 30 centimeters on him. _And a gun_ , he adds. The rest of his brain is starting to warm up to the idea that maybe he had in fact been a bit paranoid, but it still doesn’t explain the fake name situation. The anger and confusion could easily be false flags after all. 

“I had a friend look you up. Why are you lying about your name?”

“None of your fuckin’ business. Pay for your drink and get out. And forget you know my name. I don’t want to see you in my bar again.” 

Yaku marches into the kitchen without a second of hesitation. Sakusa weighs this response in his mind. _Used to people following his orders_ , he thinks, and adds it to the growing mental file on one Yaku Morisuke. Sakusa’s tempted to follow him, to squeeze more information out of the small man and confirm that he is not a threat to his family, but he knows better than to get trapped in a room full of knives and an angry man. 

He pulls out his wallet, considers the bills inside, and pulls the whole stack out. He reaches over and sets it on the ledge behind the bartop, out of sight of the other patrons.

Finally, he settles his mask on his face, stands, and sweeps out of the bar. 

\--

Yaku stands in his apartment, staring at an envelope, hoping it will, by some miracle or curse, burst into flames.

Unfortunately, his luck really took a turn for the worse in the last couple of years, and it doesn’t appear as if today’s the day it’s going to turn around. 

His right hand curls into fists at his side, the left one twitching in a pathetic attempt to mirror it, and he can feel his body shake. He turns and punches his front door without even thinking. 

The sound echoes briefly in the near-empty room and Yaku welcomes the throbbing pain.

Let him feel something, for once. 

His breathing turns deep and ragged, and he glares at the envelope on the low table again. He’s barely conscious of his movements as he shoves the packet in his jacket pocket and hurls himself out the front door on a familiar path.

Maybe his luck isn’t as shit as he thought it was, Yaku passively thinks as he spies the gate of the concrete complex. The older man is out front, speaking on a phone. As Yaku barrels towards him, the man catches view and quickly hangs up with a shocked face. 

“Sir—”

“Can you contact the young guy with the mask for me?” Yaku cuts him off. He isn’t here to talk about his stupid heroics. He doesn’t want to be here at all, but it’s the only place he knows how to find the man with the black curls, piercing eyes, and knowledge of Yaku’s true identity. 

Clearly the older man can sense the hint of murderous intent, since he holds up a calming hand in response. “Sir, I would be happy to help you however I can. We owe you that much for what you did. But can I ask why you need to speak with… my boss?”

Yaku isn’t as surprised as he probably should be at the fact that the guy, who probably isn’t far off in age from Yaku himself, is the superior to this more experienced man. He had that sort of energy about him, especially when he snapped out his drink order as if used to sending people hopping to do his bidding. 

“I need to ask him a question.” Yaku grinds out, knowing it won’t be enough. 

It isn’t. “Can I pass along a message on your behalf? My boss is out of the office the rest of the day.”

“Then I’ll just come back tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid he’ll be stuck in meetings all of tomorrow.” The man’s smile is polite but firm. Yaku is hard-pressed to stifle the growl growing in his chest, but he pulls it off.

“Fine.” He thrusts the envelope of cash towards him and steps away once the other man grasps it. “Tell him to fuck off and leave me alone, and I’ll do the same. I didn’t do it for the money.” 

He manages not to run down the street, but it’s a close thing. When he gets home, Yaku rewards himself with a pack of cigarettes that he smokes on the floor in the dark of his apartment. When the sound of squealing tires plays so loud in his head he can’t even hear his neighbor’s washing machine slamming against their shared wall, he pulls out his phone and puts on a playlist of Russian rap. 

He lets the music surround him, whiling down the hours until he can open the bar, and feels the walls close in another inch. 

\--

Sakusa isn’t quite sure why he’s here. He told himself it was only proper for a family representative to thank the person they owed a life-debt to, but he knows there’s more to it than that. He owes the man an apology. 

Armed with a name, Sakusa finally had an identity to match the face that had driven him crazy. It wasn’t a complete profile, but it was enough to let him realize that Yaku wasn’t out to attack him or his family, though he might change his mind once Yaku saw Sakusa in his bar again.

Sakusa’s here earlier than last time, only a few minutes after The Russian House opens, hoping to catch Yaku alone for a bit. He purses his lips behind his ever-present mask, and eases open the door, glad to see it empty. He steps into the middle of the room and tries to force himself to look non-threatening while he calls out to the noise in the kitchen: “Excuse me?”

“Welcome!” Yaku pops out of the doorway and halts. They both stare at each other for a solid minute, Yaku’s face growing darker with anger by the second and Sakusa’s carefully blank, though his mind is whirring with curiosity as to what Yaku will do.

A metal baseball bat appearing in the bartender’s hand wasn’t at the top of his guesses Sakusa would gladly admit.

“I told you—”

Sakusa bows deeply, his back almost parallel with the floor, cutting off the shorter man. “On behalf of my family, we thank you for your actions. We owe you a debt for the life you saved. Since you refused the money, please name your reward, and I will do my best to accommodate it.”

“Get the fuck out of my bar and never come back.”

“That is not a request I am able to comply with.”

“Do you want to tell me why?” 

“No.” It wasn’t even that Sakusa wouldn’t tell him, he simply couldn’t tell him. Even he didn’t fully know why. “I apologize if my prior actions caused offense or discomfort. My family is... very private, due to some previous threats, and I must act in a manner that ensures their safety.” Sakusa finally straightened and looked into Yaku’s skeptical eyes, pointedly ignoring the baseball bat. “I promise that your identity is a secret I will take to the grave, Yamada-san.”

Yaku continues to hold his aggressive stance with ease. “And why should I trust a stranger like you?”

Sakusa shifts. Something has to give. “You can call me Kiyoomi. Then we wouldn’t be strangers.”

Yaku eyes him, and slowly, reluctantly, lowers the bat. “I can’t decide if you’re scary or stupid. Why are you so insistent on… all of this? I don’t need money or anything else. I really just want to be left alone.”

“You run a bar. You may want to reevaluate your career decisions if you don’t wish to socialize with people.”

Sakusa thought Yaku’s eyes might fall out of his head he rolled them so hard. “A good bartender is just another piece of furniture in the bar. The socialization is all surface level, not ‘my family owes you a life debt’ type of deep conversation.” He turns away, propping the bat up just inside the kitchen, and makes his way behind the bar. “Do you want a drink or what?”

The topic change startles Sakusa, but he manages a casual shrug. “If you’re not going to bludgeon me to death, then I won’t say no.”

Yaku snorts. “I wouldn’t bludgeon you to death. Too much cleanup. I’d just break a rib or a kneecap.” 

Sakusa opens his mouth to reply, but a sudden ruckus at the door makes them both swing around. A group of four young people troop into the bar and eagerly greet Yaku, who blinks, but conjures up a smile at their shouts. 

“Everyone want their regulars?” He calls as he starts swinging around to collect glassware behind the bar. Sakusa settles in the same seat as last time, after cleaning it with a wipe and drying it with a towel Yaku tossed him, and watches as Yaku works behind the bar. He’s fast and efficient, almost a sense of elegance to his crisp movements. It’s clear Yaku knows the four students well, asking about papers and classes and friends of theirs as he creates their drinks, but Sakusa notes that they don’t pose many questions to him in return. The only one to ask anything remotely personal is a lanky boy with glasses who trots over to the counter to help Yaku carry the drinks. “Have you finished reading _Doctor Zhivago_ yet?” The boy asks. He speaks quietly but he eagerly leans over the counter towards Yaku, watching him with a hunger that Sakusa knows all too well. _If he had a tail it would be wagging_ , Sakusa thinks amusedly.

Shaking his head, Yaku flashes a rueful smile and passes over two glasses. “Been busy the last few days. I got through a few chapters, but not all of us can consume books at your rate, Yusuke-kun.” 

Yusuke takes the glasses, but remains standing by the bar. “You flatter me, Yamada. I might be able to read quickly, but you always have the superior insights. With how smart you are, you really should be the one in grad school while I serve the drinks.”

The corner of Yaku’s mouth twitches at the implied offense and Sakusa muffles a snort with a cough. Yusuke turns towards him and frowns, but Yaku grabs the other pair of drinks and starts walking towards the waiting students and Yusuke is forced to trail after him.

Yaku quickly returns. “Do you want a menu, or do you know what you want?”

“ _Doctor Zhivago_? Certainly loyal to the theme of the bar.” 

The barest of smiles floats across Yaku’s face and there’s a trace of pride in his voice when he says, “It’s worse than it sounds. I’m even reading it in Russian.”

Sakusa stares as his heart rate picks up for a moment. “Are you over it that fast?” He can’t help but blurt out. At Yaku’s raised eyebrow, Sakusa clarifies, “Me looking up your real name.”

Yaku’s shoulders tighten and the smile vanishes. “I might still spit in your drink if you continue to bring it up. But, yeah, I guess.” He runs a hand through his light brown hair, and Sakusa spots scars criss-crossing the back of it. _Old ones, not from the incident with Yuna._ “If your family has suffered from threats before, I guess I can understand the paranoia.” He laughs bitterly and exhaustion shows clearly on his face. “I also just… really don’t care anymore. I mean, who are you gonna tell?”

Sakusa raises an eyebrow of his own this time. “I don’t know. Who would want to know?”

The look Yaku gives him would break weaker men, and it sends Sakusa’s heart skipping. “I know you looked me up, don’t even try to lie. My name might not be worth much, but there’s at least one or two tabloids who would pay you to tell them where I am. Not that you seem to need the money,” he adds, nodding towards Sakusa’s perfectly tailored suit. “That’s mostly what I’m banking on.”

Sakusa tips his head and looks closely at the bartender. Yaku looks older than the photos he saw in news articles online, even though they’re only two years out of date. His face is paler and more tightly drawn, and he looks like he hadn’t really slept in those two years. Still handsome though. 

“ _Libero Yaku suddenly disappears from Japan Men’s National Volleyball Team, Cheegle Ekaterinburg rosters,_ ” one of the titles had read. There were blog posts speculating about everything from major injuries to drug usage, but not a single post he read had guessed that Yaku Morisuke, former volleyball star, was hiding out in a tiny Tokyo bar, so Sakusa guessed the fake name was working out.

“I don’t need the money,” Sakusa finally replies. 

“Good for you,” Yaku says flatly. “Now that that conversation is over, what are you drinking?”

Sakusa shrugs. “Something Russian. Bartender’s choice.”

Yaku nods. A short while later, Sakusa is holding something that smells suspiciously like Yaku just poured vodka and beer into a single glass while Yaku smirks from the other end of the bar, preparing a drink for a newly arrived customer. Sakusa takes a sip, grimaces when he realizes his hunch was correct, and leans back to absorb more details of the bar. A wooden sign hangs over the kitchen door, with the words, “THE RULES: NO BULLSHIT AND PLAY NICE WITH OTHERS. BARTENDER RESERVES RIGHT TO CHANGE THE RULES AND KICK YOUR ASS AS APPROPRIATE”, carved into it in Japanese, Russian, and English, much to Sakusa’s amusement. The idea of Yaku in a fight is much easier to imagine now that he’s seen the baseball bat, but it still brings a tiny smile to his face.

A shelf rests high above the wall of liquor behind the bar, high enough that even Sakusa would need a ladder to reach it, and it’s covered in framed photos and knicknacks. It’s hard to see details in the dim light of the bar, but they look mostly like nature shots to Sakusa, without a single photo of a friend or family member. Tucked around the photos are a smattering of cheap trinkets you’d get at tourist destinations and a small rainbow flag, to his passing surprise. Then he catches a glimpse of something tucked behind the photo closest to him. He tilts himself sideways and eventually recognizes the shape — it’s a small carving of a lion in recline. _Why is that one hidden?_

Yaku mostly ignores him, but when Sakusa finally stands to leave he hustles over. “The debt you talked about — never tell anyone my name or anyone that I work here, and we’re even. That’s all I want, really.”

Sakusa sighs as he hitches his coat over his shoulders. “My sister won’t be happy about that. She’s already mad I wouldn’t tell her where to find you, since she wanted to thank you herself.”

Yaku stares at him. “You didn’t tell her?”

“You didn’t seem keen on being found.”

They look at each other, the cacophony of the bar fading out, and Yaku slowly nods. “Alright. Thank you.” He purses his lips, as if considering saying more, but he finally just adds, “Have a safe trip home, Kiyoomi-san.”

It’s the nicest thing Yaku’s said to Sakusa since he showed up. He’s grateful his mask hides the smile. 

\--

It had not been a good day for the heir to the Sakusa Clan. 

Sakusa and two younger clansmen, Koyanagi and Abe, had arranged to meet with a business owner who, they had recently discovered, had been skimming money from payments that were supposed to be funneled through his business and onto the clan. Determining whether it was the business owner, his wife, or his son that was the perpetrator was the purpose for their meeting. If it was the business owner himself, he would likely lose a finger for his crimes, as this was his first offense. If it was his wife or son, he still might lose a finger for being careless with his business, and the true perpetrator would also have to be punished. It wasn’t expected to be a happy occasion. 

And yet it still fell below Sakusa’s expectations.

Once they announced the reason for their visit in front of the family, the father was quick to deny any acts of embezzlement. Sakusa had remained an impassive observer as Abe walked everyone through the evidence they had collected while Koyanagi stood behind the family, waiting for a sign of trouble. It quickly came in the form of the son, twitchy from the second the meeting had begun, when he whipped out a knife and tried to stab Abe. Luckily for Abe, Koyanagi was faster and had the young man disarmed and pressed into the floor in a matter of seconds. Sakusa had stepped forward to inspect the knife and the son’s face. “Drugs,” he had announced, but before he leaned back, the son angrily spat in his face. 

The screams of the mother and father as he disposed of the problem had been unpleasant, but not more than the desire he had to peel the skin off his face where the saliva had touched. 

And still, he had to bear with it for hours. After searching the son’s room while his parents sobbed down the hall, he and Abe discovered evidence that the son had been working with another Yakuza clan to push drugs in Sakusa territory, which only added to his headache and the growing report he later provided to his grandfather and Hiroshi. He also had to include the fact that Koyanagi had not properly searched the family before allowing them in the room with Sakusa, which was an entirely different issue. At least his grandfather and Hiroshi agreed with his decision; theft from the clan, attempted murder of a clansmember, and disrespecting the heir were all worthy of punishment, and combined, there had been no other choice but elimination. 

Sakusa had scrubbed himself clean and laid in bed for some time before giving in to his whims. He was good at what he did, but sometimes it was nice not to be Sakusa Kiyoomi, yakuza heir, but simply Kiyoomi, the paranoid young professional. It wasn’t much of a secret identity, but it was enough at the end of an unbearable day. And that’s how he found himself slipping into his usual seat at the bar of The Russian House while Yaku grimaced.

“I don’t recall inviting you back.”

“I don’t remember you telling me I couldn’t.”

Yaku grumbles something under his breath as he casually scrubs the counter in front of Sakusa’s seat. The sight and smell of chemical cleaners soothes him as his anxiety spikes from the surprising number of people occupying the bar. For some reason Sakusa didn’t expect the bar to ever be truly crowded, considering the few patrons he had encountered previously. 

It’s as if Yaku is able to read his thoughts. “I do have customers you know. You’ve just been coming at weird times on weekdays.” He chuckles at Sakusa’s drawn brows. “I’m not psychic, you’re just easy to read. You’ve been glaring at everyone since you walked in.”

Sakusa sighs, and Yaku walks away. “Aren’t you going to take my order?” Sakusa calls out. Yaku waves a dismissive hand, and says, “You can wait a minute. There are other customers I like more that need my attention.” 

He ends up waiting more like five minutes, much to his disgruntlement, but Yaku eventually jogs back over. “Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to leave you hanging so long. Are you just drinking tonight, or did you want some food too?”

“Both, but nothing too heavy. I have to do more work tonight.” 

“Sorry to hear that. Friday night overtime always sucks.” Yaku sounds shockingly genuine, and they both seem surprised. He shakes his head as if to dispel the moment and reaches to grab a menu off of the stack, but Sakusa stops him before he’s forced to handle the germ-ridden plastic sleeve. 

“Can you just give me a recommendation?” 

“You trust me after I gave you yorsh?” Yaku’s eyes crinkle in amusement, and Sakusa’s face shrivels in displeasure. 

“Is that what that beer and vodka thing was?”

“Okay, one drink and one food recommendation, coming up! Do you mind if I ask a couple of questions?” 

Reluctantly, Sakusa nods, and Yaku holds up 3 fingers, dropping one with each question. “Meat or no meat? Sweet or sour? Smokey or spicy?” 

Sakusa blinks. He thought he was going to be offered specific items and asked to choose. He doesn’t particularly care for surprises, especially after the last one resulted in him drinking yorsh, but he figures he’ll play along and try to get into Yaku’s good graces. 

Besides, he considers, the Sakusa Clan owns a restaurant a few blocks away that meets his standards if he’s disappointed in the meal. “I don’t care if there’s meat in the dish as long as it’s well-prepared. Sour, but I don’t mind sweet. Probably smokey, but I can’t say I particularly like either.” 

Yaku nods, and pushes back from the counter. “Sounds good. I’ll get your food started in just a second.” Before Sakusa can ask what exactly sounds good and what kind of food he should be expecting, Yaku seemingly transports halfway across the bar to a man - one of the graduate students by the looks of him - who appears to be in the early stages of a breakdown. Sakusa looks away.

A minute later, Yaku slips back into the kitchen and returns with a steaming cup and a bowl of… something. Sakusa turns slightly to watch out of the corner of his eye, and witnesses Yaku gently setting the two items next to the man staring blankly at his laptop, face lit up so brightly Sakusa could see the red of his distressed eyes. He’s only mildly surprised when Yaku takes the laptop, but instead of closing it as he expected, he types something into the browser and turns it back towards the young man. He knocks on the table with a fist, then turns back to the bar, weaving around his customers. Sakusa quickly looks away, but Yaku gives him a wave of acknowledgement on his way to the kitchen and veers off towards his seat at the counter.

“Sorry about that,” he whispers, cutting a glance towards the young man. Sakusa glances over his shoulder and sees he’s now pulled out a set of headphones and is quietly sipping on his drink. “Shota’s having a tough time with his thesis and I try to keep an eye on him. I’ll just be a second with your stuff. In the meantime,” Yaku produces a small bowl and sets it in front of Sakusa. “Rusks,” he says before sweeping away, as if that explains the bowl of what looks like toasted bread crusts.

Sakusa nibbles the inoffensive snack while Yaku sprints around the bar with beers, cocktails, and food. His running regimen must be training for working at the bar on a Friday night, because Yaku is scarily fast. He’s back only a few minutes later, setting down a plate of food in front of him. Shogayaki, with rice, shredded cabbage, a few sliced cherry tomatoes. Yaku dances behind the bar, every movement smooth and precise, and suddenly a drink appears next to the food. “Umeshu and black tea,” he says, nodding to the steaming cup. “Sour and a bit smokey. I figured if you had to keep working, you could use a little caffeine boost to balance out the alcohol.”

Sakusa dutifully tastes a sip of the drink and a bite of the food, and nods his approval. “It’s good.”

“I’m glad,” Yaku grins, and Sakusa is thrown through a loop. He’s not sure what’s happening, but he certainly doesn’t hate this friendly version of Yaku. He continues to eat and drink, then finally spots it; the source of Yaku’s good cheer. 

Yaku had been sipping from a glass of water tucked behind the bar since Sakusa arrived. Sakusa notices him drain the rest of it before casually casting his gaze around the bar. Sakusa knows that look. He turns his head away and watches from the corner of his eye as a bottle of vodka slips off the shelf and returns noticeably emptier, while Yaku’s water glass is topped off.

Yaku takes another sip and turns to chat with a regular at the bar. Sakusa stabs at his food. 

By the time Sakusa’s finished eating, nearly every seat is full and he is more than ready to escape the chaos. He tips back the last of his drink and is saying his good-byes to Yaku when both of their heads whip around to the other end of the bar. 

A young woman had been settled there since before Sakusa’s arrival, drinking alone and trying to read a book, but a man, not a regular by the way Yaku spoke to him, had been attempting to flirt with her on-and-off for the past hour, and likely before that. Sakusa had watched as the woman politely rebuffed the man several times and Yaku did his best to redirect him away from her. 

Another whimper drifts to Sakusa’s ear. He’s been trained to notice every little sound as a possible threat, but he’s surprised Yaku noticed something so quiet over the noise of the bar. Leaning backwards, Sakusa sees that the man is pressed up against the girl, rubbing against her, and his hand is out of sight below the countertop. Sakusa sneers in disgust, but remains seated as he watches Yaku march down his side of the bar. He’s always threatening to start a fight, Sakusa thinks with a hint of amusement, so it’ll be nice to finally see him put his money where his mouth is. He’s excited to see the short bartender manhandle the drunken asshole out the door. Maybe he’ll throw a few punches. 

Yaku, Sakusa quickly realizes, is full of even more rage than maybe he realized. Or maybe it’s the half a handle of vodka. 

Yaku stops in front of the drunk guy and knocks on the countertop to get his attention. Then, before anyone can really process what’s happening, he grabs him by the hair and slams his head into the bartop. As soon as the guy’s head bounces back up, Yaku uses the heel of his hand to crack the guy in the nose, and the drunk goes wheeling backwards with a cry. Yaku seemingly apparates next to him and hauls him to the exit, literally kicking him through the door. The bar is dead silent, and everyone hears Yaku rumble something threatening and the sound of flesh being struck. 

It’s another few seconds before Yaku thrusts his way back into the bar. He pauses, looks around at his stunned audience, then gestures towards the sign above the kitchen. “No bullshit in my bar. That means no sexual harrassment.” He glares, as if challenging the room, then gives a brisk bows. “I apologize for the interruption.” Yaku breezes back to the kitchen, and the noise eventually picks up again.

Later that night, Sakusa lays in his bed, staring at his ceiling. He thinks of the bar fight, of how much taller the drunk had been, and how Yaku hadn’t hesitated to attack him. He recalls Yaku threatening him, a tall, muscular stranger, with a baseball bat. He pictures Yaku, diving in front of a car to rescue a child he didn’t know. 

He remembers the look in Yaku’s eyes as he had laid on the ground, arms bleeding and breath heaving.

He thinks about the broken phone, and his original theories - clumsy, poor, or lazy. 

Sakusa scratches them all out and replaces them with a single word: _reckless_.

**Author's Note:**

> HQ Rarepair Week 2021, Day 3: Travel | Matching | **Mafia AU**
> 
> Oh man. This is a lot of setup, but we're gonna start getting to some juicy stuff next chapter. Writing depressed, older Yaku and powerful-but-isolated Sakusa is pretty tough, but I'm enjoying the vibe and I hope you are too!
> 
> Come yell with me about HQ and other weeb things on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/HazukiNinja) (*°ｰ°)ﾉ


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